


His Mistress in the Morning

by leafiest_groves



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Apollo is a whole ass yandere huh, Brother/Sister Incest, F/M, Genderbending, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kidnapping, Mildly Dubious Consent, Parker help I've done a lewd, Possessive Behavior, Pseudo-Incest, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Step-Sibling Incest, The Author Regrets Everything, Voyeurism, and I said YES, and it just has to be this shit smfh, leafy writes a straight pairing for once ò.Ó, names have power they said, they technically aren't blood related but still, to my sensible readers: I'm so so sorry dears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafiest_groves/pseuds/leafiest_groves
Summary: 𝑾𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎? 𝑹𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒊𝒎, 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒔 𝒐𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚?...Apollo's little Roman sister doesn't know what she does to him. In a moment of desperation, his self-control falls apart.
Relationships: Female Jason Grace/Apollo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	His Mistress in the Morning

A poet had said once, that when the sun rises, its light drifts into your bed like a peeping tom, spilling over one’s body in a moment of vulnerability. Perhaps they were unaware of how true that was, or perhaps they knew very well the exact kind of guilt Apollo felt in this very moment.

_It wasn’t thought wrong when I was a young god; but it always has been, hasn’t it?_

Most of Apollo’s sisters, intolerable beings that they were, had an unfortunate habit of being unhavable. They were eternal maidens or sworn into service of another one of their own. However, just this once, that all changed. 

Jacynthe remained blissfully unaware of the conflict that roiled in Apollo’s mind; asleep in the morning daylight and sprawled out over her bed a sweet state of disorder, the sleeves of her nightgown slipping off her shoulders while the hem rode up her thighs.

Sisters. His own father had been married to one. Surely it wasn’t so wrong when they weren’t even truly related to each other? They may have shared a father, they may have shared a stepmother, but they didn’t share blood. 

It wouldn’t have even been a question, all those centuries ago. Hadn’t Pluto stolen Proserpina away to the underworld? He could very well have taken a consort if he wanted one. He could see it in his mind’s eye: 

A waif-like young woman who’d be there beside him every morning, with her silky hair thrown over his pillow on soft waves, the soft blonde like flax. She’d smile up at him with sleepy eyes, chiton open in the privacy of the home. Those pretty plump lips would part to breathe a little ‘good morning’, and those slender pianist’s fingers with his ring on them would reach back to tangle in his hair. She’d be familiar to him. She’d tuck him under her chin to nuzzle into her neck, to feel her gentle heartbeat thudding in her breast. She’d blink the sleep out of her eyes, feeling his arms wind around her. She’d tilt his chin up, to press against his mouth till all they could breathe was each other. 

She’d be immortal. 

She’d be his.

The thought is unnervingly tempting. Why wouldn’t it be?

If there was anyone on this earth who could convince him to tie himself to them eternally, with true loyalty and fidelity, it would be her. 

“Brother,” she’d called him, the one time that they’d ever met face-to-face. It was under their father’s supervision. How it had stung, only Apollo knew. 

_If you knew how I thought of you, you’d never have called me that way._

She was the sweetest poison Apollo had ever forced himself to drink. Always unbearably close, but never close enough to satisfy. Even still.

For how could she? How could she ever slake his yearning, slake his thirst for her, when she was so unaware? Would she curse him? Run from him, throwing herself over cliffs or praying to be turned to a flower for him to cherish eternally?

Jacynthe was her name. How well it fit her.

_The hyancinth that blooms in heaven._

Did he not long for her the same way he’d longed for Hyacinthus? Did he not burn at her every touch? Did she not fight with all the fierceness of his lost love? 

Apollo was half convinced she was Hyacinthus himself, reborn to lure him back to his heartsick depression. 

The sunlight burnt brighter, and slipped through the blinds to splay over her, rippling over the sheets to wrap her in a halo. Fog and mist were common this time of year, blurring her at the edges to soften her into a painting; a sketch of the gossamer of a young man’s dream. 

Apollo’s white-knuckled fists hung at his sides, willing him to control himself as if she were right in front of him. The light robe she wore split open at the front, her ribbon ties coming undone in her sleepy dazed movements. She was still locked in Morpheus’ grip, there was no harm in looking now. 

Ever so enticing, the hemline drifted ever higher, rucking up as if he’d done it himself; unveiling the soft thighs that had been tucked together just underneath. Her open blouse showed him her heaving chest, rising and falling with every one of her peaceful breaths. 

Apollo’s mouth went dry.

He frowned slightly at the scars that cut across her knees, little scratch marks left behind on her chest. They were memories, marks of victories, but more than that, they were proof of this life of misery and unending battle that she led.

If _anyone_ could mark her, it was him. 

Thoughts of such a direction overtook him momentarily, pleasantly blurring his mind with images of mottled red and purple love bites on Jacynthe’s chest, bites that he’d put there himself.

Pulling back from them, he refocused on the sight in front of him, knowing that while his fantasies may be there for all eternity, this view wouldn’t.

_Am I so wrong to want her? I’d take good care of her. I’d be loyal to her. I’d protect her._

Groaning, he threw his head back in frustration. He’d caught wind of a rumor. That his stepmother would be exchanging her and that Jackson girl, for some preposterous reason that wouldn’t serve any purpose to anyone. 

Maybe he knew then, how she was needed in this fight. That they wouldn’t be anywhere without her. 

Apollo simply didn’t care.

Would they be appalled? Maybe.

Would they be ready to flay him alive? There was a good chance.

Would he be permanently tipping the balance in an irreversible direction? Yes.

The argument ceased to have any relevance. 

Apollo took the paintbrush in hand, continuing the amatory watercolor of her that he’d started. The soft shades bled over each other like the velvety flush that burned across her skin where the sunlight was brightest. Perhaps he couldn't leave her a love bite, but he could mark her up all the same.

The lurid flight of fancy that slept before him took life on the page with every stroke of the brush over the page. Apollo could almost dream then. To make love to her through the page, to watch her back arch over the paper, brushstrokes caressing her curves, the innocence in her expression veritably blinking up at him with all the sweetness of a virgin on her deflowering day.

Soon, the finished piece lay in front of him where he sat cross legged on the ground. He was more than satisfied. She looked as if she’d wake up any moment now. 

Eyes wandering from the painting to Jacynthe herself, Apollo’s rash nature took over for him, overriding all thought. He’d had enough. 

The car shifted back into it’s true form as a chariot, and in the earliness of summer’s most mellifluous day, Apollo slipped through the doors, prying Jacynthe from her sheets and into his arms, where she slept ever sounder, in a warm, impossibly soft whirl of fabric and skin. Cradling her to him, he went through the open balcony and into the chariot. 

When Jacynthe wakes, she won’t be at home any longer. The bed's too wide, the sheets too soft, and space next to her no longer empty. 

In her alluring way, she turns over, and Apollo holds his breath, afraid to disturb her. Afraid to disturb the dream that may very well be coming true before his eyes. 

The palace is quiet, and Jacynthe glows faintly when Apollo crowns her sleeping figure with a laurel wreath that he’s worn himself. There’s a flash, a faint one, and dripping through her veins is no longer blood, but ichor.

The ruckus of ascending to goddesshood is entirely absent. Apollo has taken a wife, who - for the time being at least - he is enamored with. It’s monumental. Not a single soul would dare interrupt now. 

Perhaps it's appropriate that the first time Jacynthe enters the marriage bed is in the earliest hours of the day, basking unknowingly in the sunlight Apollo rules over. 

_Kiss me._

The desperation is more than understandable. Apollo’s wildest dreams take shape before his eyes, the ‘castle in the air’ towers over all other priorities. 

Then it happens.

The waif-like young woman who will be there beside him every morning, smiles up at him with sleepy eyes. She breathes a little ‘good morning’, and those slender pianist’s fingers with his ring on them reach back to tangle in his hair. She is familiar, she is home. She tucks him under her chin to nuzzle into her neck, to feel her gentle heartbeat thudding in her breast. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes, feeling his arms wind around her in silent wonder. She tilts his chin up, to press against his mouth till all they could breathe was each other. 

“Say my name.” 

His voice is rough and low, and the deepness makes Jacynthe shiver. The whisper-light tone masks the longing forlornity that follows the request.

Her kiss-bitten lips part as if to say it, but the words are lost. Apollo’s hands wander freely. 

She looks debauched, chest shuddering with little breaths and pinking all over her skin, while her eyes dilate and fall to half-mast while she purrs lasciviously.

“Apollo.” 

His eyes widen, and his hands pause in their wayfaring of her curves. She squeaks when she’s tugged closer, fit tightly against Apollo’s chest while he mumbles into her throat, nibbling while he resumes his meandering over her body. She trembles quietly, before her nails graze over his back in building desire.

“Again.” he says, leaving those marks he’s been longing to make on her skin.

“Apollo,” she whispers, stifling an eager whine in his shoulder.

“Again.” he says, turning her onto her back.

“ _Apollo_ ,” she sighs, shifting as he moves to hover over her.

“Again.” he demands, knowing she may very well scream at their pace.

_“Apoll-!”_ she doesn’t complete her cry, it breaks off into a throaty moan that borders on a shriek. 

Her wrists are over his shoulders when he melts into her, biting at her collarbones and the highest parts of her neck. They’re locked to each other, permanently if Jacynthe has her way.

Dazed, and utterly satiated, she looks the happiest he’s ever seen her. 

_There’s no harm then, in me kidnapping myself a wife. Isn’t she happy? I’ll keep her happy._

“Apollo?” she says, eyes seizing his attention.

“Wife?” 

She smiles at him in that strange way of hers, that way of smiling when she knows something you don't, and Apollo is exultant. 

“Take me to grounds today, we haven’t sparred since eternity ago.” 

That sentence is familiar, and so is that request, and Apollo sees a mortal life flash before his eyes, and thinks of the hundreds of flowers that bloom on his land. He thinks of her in the pavilion, surrounded by trailing vines of the flower she turned to in her last death. He thinks of her smile, and thinks of the hundreds of thousands of paintings of her he wants hung with that smile.

“What’s mine is yours.” he croaks, barely able to understand what just transpired. Knowingly, lovingly, Jacynthe smiles then, the picture of supine grace.

“I know.” 

* * *

_At the touch of you,_

_As if you were an archer with your swift hand at the bow,_

_The arrows of delight shot through my body._

* * *

_Anything that is beautiful, people want to break;_

_You’re so beautiful, darling, that I’m afraid._

**Author's Note:**

> Well then. 
> 
> For those of you who're wondering why this ever happened, I chose the name Jacynthe for many reasons, one of which being that it's got ties to the word 'Hyacinth'. 
> 
> Now, I'm sure you can put two and two together on why then, aPoLLo of all beings, was chosen for this story. That and the poetic implications of the sun itself being a peeping tom is just *delicious*.
> 
> Don't mind me shamelessly plugging Witter Bynner, I love his poems, and 'At the Touch of You' is perfect for this story.


End file.
